


All Along the Watchtower

by sgam76



Series: A Felicitous Natal Celebration [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Child(ren) in peril, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidlock, Mental Health Issues, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft recognizes what Eurus is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 17:50:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9669569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/pseuds/sgam76
Summary: Mycroft Holmes, age 13, loves both of his siblings. But he's slowly coming to realize that one of his siblings may not understand the meaning of the word.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning--this is not a happy fic. This came out of a rewatch of TFP--I was struck, once again, by how distressed Mycroft was in relating Eurus' actions as a child. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized how truly terrible it would have been for him--to be a child himself, but becoming aware that something is horribly wrong with your sibling, especially since it would seem that the Holmes parents were in denial, at least for a time.
> 
> I don't normally write things quite this bleak. But this just would not get out of my head.
> 
> Note that I'm in the school that thinks that Eurus is the "middle child" that John refers to. (since my take on Sherlock's eyeroll is that he's dismissing the idea of birth order being relevant to character). It's certainly ambiguous (perhaps intentionally), but YRMV. That's OK.

  _All along the watchtower_  
Princes kept the view  
While all the women came and went  
Barefoot servants, too  
Outside in the cold distance  
A wildcat did growl  
Two riders were approaching  
And the wind began to howl

_From “All Along the Watchtower,” recorded at various times by Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton and (probably) many others_

 

**_April 1986_ **

 

Mycroft was sitting at lunch with his classmates, listening to Emory Hastings’ boombox (brought illicitly to the dining hall, not that anyone was likely to complain) wailing out the apocalyptic anthem, when the call came. In later years, he viewed the song choice as eerily prophetic, but at the time he found it ear-grating and annoying; he was already planning for Hastings’ cherished equipment to encounter an inexplicable (and fatal) accident.

It was a newish thing, school; until late last year, Mummy had home-schooled all of them (well, Mycroft and then, for not quite a year, Eurus; Lockie wasn’t due for _formal_ schooling until this fall, though everyone in the family tended to give him impromptu lessons whenever the mood, or Lockie’s excessive energy, struck). But six months ago, Eurus’ primary doctor (one of many—the progression had begun at age 2, when she first gave evidence of something truly unsettling underlying her brilliance and odd behaviours) had thought that she might benefit from a weekly boarding facility designed to offer intensive therapy focused on socialization and empathy. She spent four days a week there, leaving Friday and the weekends to spend with her family.

At the same time, Eurus’ doctor had made a passing remark about Mycroft--how it was almost certainly a good idea to enroll him in school as well, before puberty made the transition even more difficult. Harrow was in the offing, come this September, but in the interim, there was an excellent day school available only five miles from home.

On balance, Mycroft quite liked school; while Mummy was an excellent teacher, her interests were somewhat narrower than the broad curriculum available at Caterham. And it had been borne in upon him, almost immediately, that his social skills were woefully inadequate. He had exceptional manners, of course, but very limited understanding of how to interact with (and, of course, influence) his peers. He had spent the past months correcting that; while he still considered his classmates immature and largely idiotic, he had nonetheless managed to build a coterie of admiring thralls, willing to overlook his sometimes odd demeanor in exchange for a succession of impressive favours in helping with classwork.

That explained, perhaps, the concerned silence that enveloped his table when the assistant headmaster came bustling up, resting a soothing hand on Mycroft’s shoulder before telling him, in a low voice, that there had been an accident at home, and that a car was waiting for him.

Mycroft never remembered, afterwards, the walk, well, _run_ , actually, from the dining hall to the visitors’ parking area. His next awareness was of sitting in the car, trying desperately to calm himself before asking Mrs. Trevor (neighbor, kind, mother of Lockie’s little friend, deeply distressed but trying not to show it) what had happened, and where they were going.

“We’re going to North Downs Hospital,” Mrs. Trevor said, resolutely suppressing a tremor in her voice. “Now, don’t worry, dear, your brother has…he’ll be OK, I swear. Your mum and, and _Eurus_ are already there, so they asked me to drive you. Your dad is on his way back from Estonia; he should be here by morning.”

“What happened?” he finally managed, unable to stop the warble in his voice. Instead of detailing the incident, Mrs. Trevor paled and shook her head.

“I’ll let your mum tell you all about it when we get there,” she said finally, in that brisk way adults used when trying to avoid unpleasant questions. “I can promise you, though, that the doctors say Sherlock will be fine.” And with that Mycroft had to be content, for the remaining five minutes of the drive.

When they passed through the hospital entryway, Mycroft was surprised to see Brindle, Daddy’s long-time assistant, standing in the lobby. He had to suppress the urge to throw his arms around the older man.

“Mycroft, my lad,” Brindle said, hustling forward and giving Mrs. Trevor a grateful smile. “Your dad asked me to meet you, and see what help I could be to you and your mum until he gets back.” Brindle’s sparse ginger hair was rumpled, and his clothes—jeans and an old grey jumper—indicated he had been called in while on his day off. Gardening, Mycroft thought distractedly. Brindle loved to garden.

Brindle turned to speak again, but Mrs. Trevor interrupted, a bit apologetically. “I’m so sorry, but…Mycroft, my dear, I must leave you here, with Mr. Brindle. Alice, from down the road, is watching Vic for me, but she’s only 11 and I’m afraid to leave them alone any longer.” She put her hands on his cheeks, and kissed him gently on the top of his head. “It will all be fine, I know it. Please make sure your mum calls me once Lockie’s out of surgery, all right?” Mycroft nodded as she turned and walked away, a frozen smile on his face. _Surgery?_

Brindle took a close look at him and made an appropriate deduction. “Oh, come here,” he sighed, and wrapped his arms around Mycroft firmly. “Of course, this has frightened you to death. Your brother will come right, I promise. Did Mrs. Trevor tell you what happened?” Mycroft shook his head, buried as it was in Brindle’s jumper. He wasn’t up to coming out just yet.

“Silly woman,” Brindle said, in a confiding tone. “She means well, but she forgets you’re not quite like other children.” Mycroft nodded into the jumper.

Brindle gripped Mycroft’s shoulders gently and pushed him back, far enough to see into his face. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, which he used to efficiently wipe Mycroft’s (treacherously) leaking eyes.

“Now then. Before we go upstairs, I’ll tell you the basics, so your mum doesn’t upset herself further. Lockie’s in surgery; he fell out of the treehouse and broke his right arm, quite badly. Bumped his head as well, and was unconscious briefly, or so I’m told—his little friend found him, after, and ran to get help.”

Mycroft wasn’t thinking as clearly as he would like, but something about how that sentence was phrased rang alarm bells in his head. “’After’? After what? Wasn’t Victor there when Lockie fell? And if not, how did he know Lockie had been unconscious?”

Brindle had flushed, and looked uncomfortable. “Ah. Young Mr. Trevor wasn’t there when your brother fell; he came looking for him, and found Lockie and Eurus together, under the treehouse. Eurus was…she said she was _observing_. She didn’t want to leave, so the little boy ran and got your mum. Eurus was the one to tell your mum that Lockie had hit his head, and didn’t wake up for a bit.” There was more to it, clearly; Brindle wouldn’t have been so uneasy if that were the whole story. But it was unlikely Brindle was going to tell him, at least not now.

It was Eurus. It had to be Eurus. She had fixated on Sherlock, from the time he could walk. Mummy had learned to watch carefully, and never left her alone with the baby; her curiosity knew no bounds, and she didn’t seem to understand what it meant when the toddler cried. Of course, with only a bit more than a year between them, she wasn’t much more than a baby herself at the time.

Sherlock, for the most part, adored her, though of late he found it harder and harder to find common ground. She was largely uninterested in conventional play, especially of the rough-and-tumble, pirate-based variety. For Sherlock’s sake, the advent of Victor Trevor had been a godsend.

Eurus had never shown any kind of animosity towards Lockie, but it was also unclear what, exactly, she intended in her interactions with him. She wanted his attention, clearly. He was fascinating to her, but Mycroft sometimes wondered if she truly understood that Sherlock was someone she should care about. Eurus had learned to lie, very early indeed.

 

 

 

Brindle led Mycroft to the lifts, and they rode up together. They passed down several hallways until they reached the Childrens’ Surgical Unit; Brindle stopped at a nursing station and showed a pass of some kind, and they were buzzed through to the waiting room, where Mummy sat in a corner with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Eurus sat on her far side, flipping through a magazine, but also observing him through her eyelashes. As soon as she saw him, Mummy barreled out of her chair and gripped him in a tight hug.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” Mummy breathed. “It’s dreadful, and Daddy’s not here, and I’m just…” she ran out of steam and continued the hug, to the point where it became uncomfortable. Brindle, sensing Mycroft’s discomfiture, cleared his throat and spoke.

“Would you like me to rustle up some tea, and perhaps cocoa for the kids, Mrs. H.?” he asked kindly. “I’m sure Mycroft would also appreciate hearing a bit more of the story when you’re up to it; he’s been very brave, but I know he’s quite worried.”

“Sherlock’s humerus is broken, roughly 10 centimeters above his elbow,” Eurus suddenly said. “There was some internal bleeding from the break. Evidently certain blood vessels were traumatized by twisting or wrenching after the bone displaced. He was unconscious for roughly 4 minutes, and vomited twice when he woke up. It was unclear if that was from pain or concussion. I asked, but he couldn’t tell me.” She seemed mildly surprised by the looks of consternation on the faces of her audience; after a considering glance, she returned to her contemplation of the magazine.

Mummy recovered from that pronouncement quickest. She released Mycroft and responded to Brindle as if nothing had been said.

“Oh, that would be lovely, Brindle,” she said fervently. “I was in the midst of preparing lunch when Victor came screaming through the door. None of us have had anything to eat since 6—Lockie woke up early and wanted to go look at a bird’s nest he’d found yesterday, and Eurus went along. If you can find any biscuits, that would be perfect.” She looked around the room, then continued. “I don’t expect them to tell us anything for at least another hour; the nurse said they’d be finished shortly, but we can’t see him until he’s started waking up.” Her face worked momentarily before she got herself back under control.

Mycroft wanted, very much, to talk to Eurus, and he didn’t want to do so while their mother was in the room. “Mummy, why don’t you go with Brindle? You’ve been sitting here a long time, and it would be good to have a break. I’ll stay with Eurus.”

Mummy looked torn. “I…if you’re sure, dear? I’m afraid I’m going to start throwing furniture if I stay here much longer, but I don’t want to leave you two either.”

Mycroft forced himself to smile. “We’ll be fine. Just make sure to bring back chocolate biscuits too.” Mummy reached over and gave his shoulder a gentle, teasing shove, but went.

 

 

As soon as his mother was out of earshot, Mycroft closed the door firmly and went to sit next to his little sister. She put her magazine down and looked at him calmly. Eurus was always calm; that was just one of the many things that were unsettling about her.

“What happened?” Mycroft said. “How did he fall?”

“We had observed the bird’s nest. Lockie wanted to go back for lunch, but I told him it would be at least 20 minutes before it was ready. He asked me if I wanted to see his treehouse; I’d never been before, and I wanted to see the view from that high up. It’s not the same when you have to look through windows, is it?” She waited for the shake of Mycroft’s head, then continued.

“Five minutes of viewing was enough. Lockie didn’t want to leave, but I did, so I opened the trap door in the floor and went to pick up my jacket and put it back on. Lockie was dancing about and telling me to watch him; I did, and then he fell through the hole. He didn’t make any noise when he landed. So I climbed down and saw that he was unconscious. I observed him for four minutes; then he woke up, and vomited, and cried until he vomited again.” She waited expectantly for his response; it was clear she had no idea what that response would be.

Mycroft phrased his question very carefully. “Did you know he would fall through the hole?”

Eurus nodded. “I saw him hopping backwards. Given his path of movement, it was inevitable.”

“And did you try to warn him, to keep him away from the opening?” Mycroft asked. It was startling, how calm he could sound. He wasn’t calm at all.

“Why?” she said. She looked carefully at his face, then made a slight huff of annoyance. “It’s one of those ‘feeling’ things, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said quietly. Then stayed silent until Mummy returned.

 

 

 

By mid-afternoon, when the nurses ushered them into his room, Sherlock was awake, in pain, and sobbing. Mummy bustled over and draped herself across his good side; his right arm was held in a cast that ran from fingers to armpit and was studded with wicked-looking metal pins above his elbow. His face was the same color as his pillows, and his curls were matted to his head.

“We’re giving him something for pain now, and he’ll drop right back off. But I wanted to give you a chance for a cuddle first,” the kindly nurse said, as she checked Lockie’s various lines and readouts. She pointed to a cup on the side table with her chin. “He can have some of those ice chips, if he wants.” Mummy peeled herself loose and offered the little boy an ice chip; he stopped sobbing and took it, sucking enthusiastically. Within five minutes, though, his eyes had drifted closed again, and he was sound asleep.

At 7 that evening, with Lockie still blissfully snoring, they all went down to the hospital dining room and had a subpar dinner before Mummy had Brindle take Mycroft and Eurus home. She would be staying the night; because he was so young, Mummy was allowed to sleep on the extra cot in Lockie’s room.

Eurus wouldn’t be allowed to return to visit tomorrow because of her age; she had only been permitted today because Mummy had had no one to leave her with. Brindle would stay home with her. Mycroft, because he was over 12, could return; he would come back with Daddy, who should arrive sometime in the night.

 

 

 

Mycroft didn’t hear Brindle speaking with Daddy in the night, nor Daddy’s telephone call with Mummy; he was so exhausted by the events of the day that he went to bed as soon as they got home. When he came downstairs in the morning, though, Daddy was there. Despite his warm and enthusiastic greeting, it was clear that his father had had a fuller accounting from Brindle than the man had offered Mycroft; Daddy was abnormally quiet, and his concern wasn’t just about Sherlock.

Eurus was oblivious to the obvious emotional tension at breakfast; she was pleased to see Daddy, but not especially demonstrative about it. She chattered through the meal, describing the bird’s nest Lockie had taken her to see, but (perhaps significantly) saying nothing about the subsequent events. Daddy was kind, responsive—but also wary. It amazed Mycroft that his brilliant little sister did not discern that wariness.

They headed back to hospital at 9 (Mummy had called to say that Sherlock was due a doctor’s re-check at 9:30, and Daddy wanted to be there for that). When they arrived, Mummy was sitting on the spare cot, looking exhausted but thrilled to see them. “He’s back to himself,” she said delightedly. Behind her, Lockie raised his head from his breakfast tray and chirped “Hi!” to the room at large.

After a family round of cuddles and conversation, the doctor came in and put Lockie through some gentle tests, which led to a brief spate of tears, followed by another dose of medication that sent him off to sleep again. When it was clear their youngest was down for good, Mummy and Daddy announced that they were off for a long walk and a chat. They invited Mycroft to go as well, but he just smiled and told them he’d prefer to stay and keep watch.

Mycroft gave it a full hour before he approached the cot and his little brother; he wanted to give Lockie time to benefit from the pain relief, but also time for it to wear off just enough for him to wake up, given the right stimulus. He went into the en suite and dampened a flannel with warm water, then went to the side of the bed. He began wiping Lockie’s face and hands, while gently calling his name. Within a minute, the little boy’s eyes fluttered open; within two, awareness had come back into those eyes. “Hello, Myc,” he croaked happily. “My arm hurts, but it’s better than it was. Have you come to take me home?”

“Not just yet,” Mycroft said softly, while continuing to stroke with the flannel. Lockie’s eyes flooded, preparatory to tears; Mycroft swiftly intervened. “Now, now—it’s OK. Mummy and Daddy will be back directly, and you can have another nice nap in a bit. I know Daddy’s brought you some presents as well; you’ll like that, won’t you?”

Lockie sniffled, but considered. “Is it something I can play with in bed? And did he bring me my chocolates?”

Mycroft nodded; Daddy _always_ brought them chocolates when he traveled, even if the only place he could buy them was the airport, twenty miles from home. “Mm. And—“ he reached behind him for the rucksack he’d brought along—“look who I brought!” He pulled out a large, puffy stuffed bee.

“Mr. Bumble!” Lockie squealed, and clutched the slightly-tattered toy to his chest possessively. He slid back down drowsily into the blankets, burying his nose in the bee’s fuzzy side. His eyes started to slide closed again; Mycroft hastily touched his shoulder to rouse him.

“Wait just a bit before you sleep again,” he said, while Lockie whined but complied. “I have to ask you a question or two about what happened.”

Mycroft’s heart throbbed in his chest when the little boy froze, like a startled deer. “I don’t remember,” he said miserably.

“I think maybe you do,” Mycroft said, very gently indeed. “Did something happen after you woke up? Something that frightened you, more than falling did?”

Sherlock’s wide, tragic eyes answered for him. He turned and burrowed his nose into Mr. Bumble once more.

“Did Eurus touch you after you fell?” Mycroft asked. Then, because he couldn’t _not_ ask, even though doing so made him feel ill—“Did she move your hurt arm, even though it hurt you?”

“I don’t know,” Lockie sobbed. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. It wasn’t…she didn’t mean…I don’t remember!” he wailed. His heart monitor suddenly erupted into sound, and before Mycroft could move, the nurse hurried back into the room, pushed him out of the way, and gave the little boy an additional dose of medicine that had his eyes sliding shut as if someone had turned a switch.

When all was calm again, she turned and gave Mycroft a stern look. “If he gets upset again, you come get me at once, do you understand? It’s very important that he stay calm right now.” Mycroft nodded soberly, and went to lie on the extra cot and shake.

 

 

Sherlock was in hospital for nearly a week. Mycroft spent virtually all of the intervening time thinking, planning, moving things around in his head. By the time his little brother came home, his bulky cast in a large sling and his face white as milk, he had come to a decision, and determined the optimal course of action. His reasoning followed a rational, though bleak, path:

**_Item:_** Sherlock was too young, too physically and mentally vulnerable, to protect himself, or to even be aware that he needed protection. Attempts to convince him had resulted in near-hysterics at every juncture.

**_Item:_** Eurus, though not intentionally malicious, was unaware of or completely indifferent to the suffering of those around her. This was unlikely to change.

**_Item:_** Despite Mycroft’s repeated efforts to make his parents fully understand the implications of Eurus’ limitations when considered in light of the scope of her abilities, they remained convinced that continued therapy would teach Eurus empathy or, at least, self-control. They would not believe that Sherlock was in any real danger, though they had committed to never leaving the two alone together again.

**_Conclusion:_** Some other agency must be involved in Sherlock’s protection, and said agency must make strenuous efforts to teach Eurus to control her impulses. And, given that their parents refused to acknowledge that necessity, “that agency” must be Mycroft. It would be, of course, short-term; in September Mycroft would be heading off to school, and that couldn’t be avoided. But Sherlock would also be starting infant school in September, since he had asked to go to “real school” with Victor; that would put him out of his sister’s reach for virtually the entire week, and Mycroft could come home often for weekends and holidays.

 

 

Two days later, Mycroft went to see Mummy in her home office. He had planned the timing, and the setting, very carefully. He wanted this to be a calm, reasoned discussion; any hint to Mummy of his real motives would be disastrous. Given that this was only an interim, emergency plan—making the best of an untenable situation—he could not afford to fail. There was no backup—at least, none that wouldn’t destroy his family and alienate him from his parents.

He wandered in calmly, carrying a cup of coffee and some of Mummy’s favorite jam and toast. He set his burden down on the edge of her desk while he waited for her to surface from her work; Mummy’s concentration was such that she might well not have noticed him yet. When she put her pen aside, she turned and gave him a sunny smile. “Well, well—bringing me gifts, are you? You must want something.” The smile took the edge off the comment, and she took a big bite of the toast as she said it.

An excellent start. “Well…” Mycroft began. “I did have something I’ve been thinking about. I understand if you feel you can’t agree, but it would make me very happy.” He dropped his eyes to the desk before looking coyly up through his lashes.

“Oh, stop,” she chuckled. “You’re not 5 like your brother; it’s a lot less effective at 13.” But she ran her fingers fondly through his hair as she said it.

“Yes, well,” Mycroft huffed. It was actually a little difficult to get this out. Lying wasn’t as easy when one did it to someone you cared about. “I’d like…that is…I’ve been missing everyone very much. I didn’t realize how much until all of this happened.”

Every bit of that was true. Of course, the next bit wasn’t—but it was _necessary_.

“I think, if you don’t mind…there’s only a couple of months left of the term anyway. And I’ll be going away for good to Harrow after this summer. So, um, I would like to go ahead and finish out the year at home, go back to home schooling. It’s my last chance to be here with everyone.” That was enough. He didn’t dare embellish any further. He held his breath and waited.

Mummy looked at him. “But I thought you liked school?” she said, a little uncertainly.

“Well, I do, for the most part,” Mycroft replied. “But I’ll have plenty of school, from September on. And Sherlock won’t be little forever—I hate to miss out on that.” It could be disastrous that he didn’t include Eurus in that sentence, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Mummy thought for a moment longer, before finally smiling again. “Oh, I suppose so. It’s only a couple of months, after all.” She gave him a sly grin. “Maybe we can work on your diet too.”

Mycroft flushed, but managed to smile back. “I suppose,” he managed.

 

 

 

When Mycroft walked out of Mummy’s office, Eurus was waiting in the hallway. She said nothing, beyond giving him an impossibly knowing look. As he went off to look for his brother, he heard music coming from outside—the gardener cutting the grass, apparently. But he recognized the song— _All Along the Watchtower_ , the same song playing in the dining hall when all of this started. And he realized, with a small gasp, that he was now along the watchtower—and the wind, the east wind, was blowing.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is, by the way, in the same 'verse as the Birthday fics. I ultimately re-tagged it that way even though it doesn't actually occur on anyone's birthday.
> 
> And observant readers will note that they have met Brindle before--he also appears in Felicitous Natal Celebration (which I will shortly have to tweak to fold Eurus in there somehow).


End file.
